


Something About The Way You Look Tonight

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Community: blindfold_spn, Facials, Light Bondage, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: Crowley jerking off and wiping his come off his hands onto Castiel's face. I just want to see it <3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something About The Way You Look Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/2172.html?thread=2462076#t2462076).
> 
> First time writing both Castiel and Crowley! Title very definitely from the Elton John song, which I listened to the entire time, laughing and laughing. 510 coda.

"Ah, yes. I like this. This could work," Crowley tells Castiel, looking so smug that Castiel wants to - what was that phrase Dean used? - pop a cap in his ass.

But he can't pop anything. All he can do is subject his vessel to the strange pressures of kneeling on a shining hardwood floor with his wrists bound behind his back and his neck wrapped in a heavy iron collar that is scrawled mockingly with faintly glowing Enochian symbols. It isn't as effective as holy oil, but it's enough to keep him down on his knees, subservient. Saliva is slipping down his chin, somehow escaping around the gag that's got his jaw wide open, uncomfortably open, teeth sitting all around a sphere. He wonders if it will be sore later.

"You know, I really quite like a man in a trench coat," Crowley says conversationally, then sips amber liquid from a small glass tumbler in his hand. "You don't often see them anymore. Reminds me of more genteel times - Scarpelli and Capone. And, might I add, not spouting off heavenly propaganda suits you nicely."

Crowley's eyes are dark and beady and glint with the firelight. Castiel wonders how anyone could ever trust him with those eyes. They're demon eyes.

"Now, I must admit, I was... _titillated_ when you watched my deal go down from afar like some peeping tom," grins Crowley, unbuttoning his jacket. "But then you decided to follow me home. Tell me, angel, were you hoping for some lip service?"

He cups one ear with his hand as if straining to hear Castiel answer, amusing himself in a most irritating way, as he knows full well Castiel cannot do anything but grunt and kneel there in this degrading position. As the amusement slips away, Crowley straightens, stares at him.

The way he unzips his trousers is not entirely unfamiliar to Castiel, but from what he understands, people usually do that in private. Crowley's not human, though; he wears a human, but doesn't follow their rules of modesty. He slips his hand into his trousers, grabbing at what Castiel can only assume is his vessel's -- dick. That's the term Dean would use. Castiel watches, unmoving and unblinking, as Crowley's wrist works, his cuff links blinking as they catch the firelight. The demon inside -- the real Crowley -- is pleasuring himself, molesting his vessel's body without care, Castiel realizes, and disdain wells deep in him. He knows the man Crowley's wearing has been dead for months, if not years, and that he no longer has a use for his body now that his soul has departed for Heaven, Hell, whichever. But he cannot imagine himself doing the same to Jimmy's body. As it is, it's wearing down slowly. His knees actually hurt from kneeling.

"I know just what to do with you, my little Hardy boy," Crowley gloats, sounding low and sinister, an effective tone as Castiel knows how truly old the demon is in comparison to many. Castiel is not afraid, exactly. Crowley can't kill him. But he is apprehensive. Dean and Sam are expecting him to return so they can put their plan into action, and he might be very, very late.

Crowley circles him intently, arm working increasingly quickly; Castiel can hear his breaths become faster and knows he is feeling pleasure from this. Holding an angel captive. Using an angel as a pawn in his own interests. It manifests itself as sexual pleasure, and that's something Dean and Sam feel, too. He's interrupted Dean experiencing it before, and knows now that it's private and personal. The fact that Crowley's doing the same, but blatantly in front of him, piques his interests somewhat.

"Yes," Crowley hisses, "I know just what to do. This'll work."

He shudders, then, making Castiel squint, and chuckles throatily, making Castiel open his eyes up wider to stare.

A moment later, Crowley reaches out and pats him on the cheek, and his hand is covered with burning hot seed, sticky with ejaculate the temperature of a demon and not of a human. It splats against Castiel's face, and for a second, he closes his eyes, not sure if he's disgusted or interested. He's disgusted, because it's _Crowley_ doing this to him, but interested, because it feels unlike anything he knows.

It's slimy, but it all clings together in a thick mass, and he sits stock still as Crowley gets sensual, fetishistic, and smears the mess over his cheek, over the bridge of his nose and all across his entire face. It smells sharp. Vaguely sulfuric, but very human, too. It stays warm on his face as Crowley leaves him there, backing up to look at his work and laughing into the sip he takes from the alcohol that's been in his other hand the entire time.

"It's a good look for you," he offers, as if reassuring, and Castiel blinks. The seed is in his eyelashes. "I'm just going to enjoy it for a minute, and then I'm going to let you go, so you can go scampering back to the Winchesters and tell them all about my ultra-secret hide-out, here."

A dribble of something - saliva or jism or both - drips from Castiel's chin, and Crowley swirls his drink, plucks a silk pocket square from the breast of his suit, wipes his hand off thoroughly, then tucks the dirty scrap into his pocket.

"To remember you by," he says, then takes a seat with a satsified flourish in an armchair that's tall and covered in leather. A few minutes tick by, and the wetness clinging to Castiel's face is cooling, drying on him, and prickling against the scruff of facial hair he cannot seem to keep up with. His captor smiles, staring at Castiel with great pleasure, and Castiel stares back, waiting with infinite but burning patience to be turned loose.

Crowley finally pipes up, "Word of caution. You may not want to mention our little get-together to the boys. It might give them ideas."

For the rest of the time he's trapped in the collar on the floor, gagged and bound and kind of in pain, Castiel cannot help but wonder exactly what kind of ideas this monster would share with Sam and Dean. As much as it pains him to take advice from the king of the crossroads, doesn't think he'll ask.


End file.
